


Detective in Disguise

by CoolSecretTwin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Captivity, Deaf Character, M/M, Non-Sexual Bondage, Psychological Torture, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 02:21:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19075528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoolSecretTwin/pseuds/CoolSecretTwin
Summary: The world's only consulting detective has been taken captive by a major criminal organization. The only one with a way in, is Jim Moriarty. And he made it clear: no one touches Sherlock Holmes.





	Detective in Disguise

**BERLIN**

 

There was no such thing as holiday for consulting criminals. Perhaps others did, but Jim certainly wasn't the type. Crime happened every day, even Sundays and Christmas. He wouldn't be in such high demand if he let himself fancy a holiday after a successful job. Besides, he _liked_ his job.

_"You'll never work a day in your life if you enjoy what you do."_

That being said, there was work that went along with his job. Mostly just dealing with people who asked questions.

He really, really didn't like questions.

He got, "Is this James Moriarty?" at least four times a day. 

It had gotten to the point where he hung up the instant they asked.

He caught small holidays every now and then, when criminal organizations took him some place new. 

He and Seb arrived in Berlin two days ago.

He had been there several times, so had Sebastien, but never had they been there together. It would have almost been charming, if they thought of each other that way, but Jim didn't fancy Seb. Too much muscle, not enough brain to screw around with. He only tolerated him as acceptable company, mostly because he kept to himself.

Moriarty only knew what came in his file, and wasn't interested in the smaller details. So much so, that he didn't really know what Seb thought of him. He paid him considerably more than the military, and kept his scandals away from the government. Not that his opinion of Moriarty mattered. He had hired him to work, not to express his concerns. So considerate. The entire world could use more employees like that.

Together, they managed a meal at a five star restaurant a client had recommended to him, and walked along the section of the Wall that was still standing. Truly, a lovely city. One that Jim didn't mind sharing companionship with. Even if that companion was Sebastian. The marine clearly didn't like being a tourist. He preferred to stand off to the side, like he wasn't "with" Jim when he took pictures with his phone, mostly of himself with monuments in the background.

The line was drawn when he refused to take a step into the museum.

"We won't get to see it again," Jim whined.

Seb rolled his eyes and signed snappishly, "You will be a suspect." He raised an eyebrow in challenge.

Jim reached up, pretending that he didn't have to rise up on his toes a bit, and patted his rough cheek.

"Advertising," he signed. He was counting on the cameras to catch him. All the better for the newspapers to help his business.

He couldn't literally drag Seb into the Jüdisches Museum. He was too strong, and had on more than one occasion, swept Jim off his feet in more private settings. But he could mentally leash the gunman. Quite easy too. Just a mention of the scandals and footage Jim had, and the correspondence with British Intelligence, and there Seb went, trotting along at his side.

It was much easier when he obeyed.

The Jüdisches Museum was impressive, a feature that Daniel Libeskind should be proud of. Jim preferred contemporary architecture to the boring ordinary buildings. It was bizarre, and unbalanced, like architecture should be.

Together, they walked through the exhibits and finally found themselves in the Garden of Exile. Jim often felt content with these moments, when he could mill with clueless tourists, perfectly content in their ignorance.

He tripped a little boy who was screaming too loudly in a language he didn't know. Probably a nothing language, like most children spoke. He smirked as the boy screamed even louder at his bumped chin. It was okay if children screamed because of him.

By tomorrow, news crews from all over would be covering the attack. Who did it, how many died, who their families were, and government response. A blurry image of him the day before and the day of would be advertised to everyone who knew his name. The world be thrown into another tragedy, and Jim would be off to his next project.

And another museum would be built in this one's place, with a gift shop for the americans.

He found himself looking at Seb, who was reading a memorial about the garden. The brute could be intelligent, mostly preferring to read instead of converse. If Jim were to like one thing about him - which wasn't saying a lot - it would be that he didn't expect much from him. He expected a job and a free room at minimum.

But those big arms, pulsing through the leather jacket were doing things to him. Jim could turn off his brain when he wanted to. He licked his lips.

He brought his sniper to bed with him that night, unholstering the gun at his hip and pointing it between his ribs until he undressed with a slight smirk.

The ex-marine was just as put together in bed as he was in his line of work. Calculated, hardly a sweat on his brow, and quick with cleanup. It wasn't anything special. Insert Tab-A into Slot-B kind of thing. Jim did most of the work.

He wasn't the gorgeous, lithe little genius he wanted, but it still felt good to have the fourteen stone man under him. Even if he didn't cuddle afterwards.

He just sat up and lit a cigarette, leaving Jim for the shower.

Jim pulled on Seb's shirt, knowing he would hate him for it, and opened his laptop. The museum feed was still synced with his computer. He had a few emails. One with the subject line:

**> >HOLMES UNDERCOVER**

He snorted, and crossed his legs under him like a child preparing for a show. He _had_ to see this. That icy government official doing leg work was the epitome of a good time.

He opened the file, expecting documents for the Ice Man, but the CCTV footage was outside Baker Street. He squinted and leaned closer to the screen to see the consulting detective enter a cab, sans coat, and a knapsack slung over his shoulder. What was even more interesting was the _absence_ of his live-in one.

The time stamp dated it Sunday, 15:23:33. Moriarty sat back and clapped his hands together, posing his fingertips beneath his chin. Finally, something interesting was happening.

He responded:

**I want updates.**

**-Jim Moriarty**

 

-x-

 

**BRUSSELS  
**

 

They rang him at two in the morning. Any other call and he would have pulled the pillow over his head and just ignored it till it went to voicemail, but this was a specific tone. Three beeps in rapid continuation. Those were top priority.

Mirek's hand automatically darted out in a reflex. Irritation woke him just enough for him to remember he had set it on Bianca's side. Half asleep, he leaned over her, and bumped the phone too hard, knocking it to the floor. A yawn of deep seated exhaustion drowned out a choice swear, as he rolled over and stumbled to the other side, blindly following the ring before it went to voicemail.

Rule One never let the phone go to voicemail. Especially her.

He finally found it and slumped to the floor with his back against the foot of the bed.

"Yes?" he rasped in czech, shaking off the clinging sleep.

"There's been a security breach." He recognized Nina's slow tongue on the other end.

He huffed and rolled the back of his head against the footboard. 

Of course Ruzicka wouldn't call him herself. He should have known. And while talking to a rabid bear was easier than talking to her, he would rather talk to her than fucking Nina at two in the morning.

"You don't call me up when I'm  _here_ ," he hissed. He spoke quickly to throw her off. No matter how hard she tried, her Czech never lost that Russian curl in her vowels. She tried to make herself feel important at Ruzicka's side, while Mirek knew their boss would just as soon toss Nina to the dogs as soon as the mob got whiff of her location.

"I do what she wants," Nina said coolly.

"And?" He rubbed a hand over his face, automatically knowing how serious the situation was. Ruzicka had called him in before, while he was on vacation, but it was always her on the other end of the line, never her little body guard.

Nina grunted. It sounded like she was moving something. "She wants you in, doesn't she."

He pictured her bench pressing with the phone smushed between her cheek and shoulder. Mirek imagined the bar slipping and crushing her windpipe. He would chase that dream.

"What have you got so far?"

"We have him, but he won't give us anything."

Of course he wouldn't. It didn't matter who this guy was, if he was with MI-5 or the police or just another mob. Ruzicka's men had limited motivations. The equivalent of holding a match under a pot of water and expecting it to boil.

Mirek cupped the back of his shaved head. "It'll take me at least till tomorrow afternoon till I can get back."

"I've got a flight for you at six. You'll land here at 6:30."

Mirek ground his teeth. Fucking Nina. She was impeccable at her job, the reason why she had worked for Ruzicka so long, but sometimes she was just too damn good, which was why Ruzicka kept her around, secretary and security all in one.

"Appreciated," he bit out.

He hung up and tossed the phone into the pile of clothes on the floor.

He heard Bianca sigh and the sheets rustle. "Wie was dat?" she murmured, still half asleep.

Mirek crawled in beside her, joints creaking, her warm, soft arm covering his chest. He kissed her hand. It would be months until he was able to be this tender with someone again. Real women were soft, needed protection, and Mirek relished his strength.

"I have to leave early," he whispered, switching to Dutch for her. He was too tired to get the dialect just right. "I'm so sorry."

She nuzzled his neck. "I could go with you." Her breath whispered over his skin. He shivered, gooseflesh prickling down his arms as they tightened around her.

Even with sleep still clinging to him, his stomach knotted at the thought of her being within a hundred miles of Ruzicka. He tightened his arm around her. "Not this time." He kissed her. "I'll try not to wake you in the morning."

She wriggled closer. "No. I want to say goodbye."

Perhaps she knew that it would be a very long time until they could bed each other again. Too long.

She managed to drift off, but Mirek only dozed. The fury at being taken from her so soon was still buried under exhaustion. But it would return as soon as he met the colossal moron who dared to set foot in Ruzicka's compound.

 

-x-

 

**PRAGUE**

 

The Brussels' airport had a milieu of coffee shops where he bought two coffee blacks, so unchrist-ly bitter that he was forced to add one packet of sugar, at 5:30 in the morning. The flight to Prague was short, as they always were. He texted Bianca when he landed. She didn't text back, most likely still asleep.

Pavel was waiting in his usual black tie ensemble, with his usual black car outside. He said nothing, but hefted Mirek's duffel bag into the trunk. Yesterday's newspaper waved at him from where it was tucked in the back pocket of the front seat. He took out his phone instead. Pavel had been chauffeuring Mirek from the airport and train stations for years, but their silence was one of distant colleagues. They knew what each other's jobs were. Being friendly with one another was not in the description.

Not much traffic this early in the morning, it took them thirty five minutes to reach the compound outside the city. Pavel pressed a button and the iron gate swung open. A guard dressed all in black with a dark blue toboggan hefted his machine gun to his left arm and bent over, level with the driver's window. Pavel showed him ID, then drove them around to the underground car park and parked near the elevator.

Nina was waiting for him, her usual leather jacket zipped halfway up, and black boots tapping in rhythm to the beat in her headphones. Everything she wore was a mixture of grunge that she'd worn down herself, and extravagant purchases so ridiculously expensive that they had no purpose being around her. She had three leather jackets, each Gucci brand proudly printed on the inside of the collars. Each one a present from Ruzicka.

Mirek cracked his neck and shouldered past her into the elevator.

"Has he said anything?"

"No."

_Prissy heifer._

"He managed to get out of his cuffs twice already. That's where he got the shiner," she tapped the corner of her eye. She wore too much eyeshadow. Not like Bianca. A real woman knew how much was enough.

The rest of the ride was silent as they descended to level three, far below the cars. Rusted, steamy pipes overhead, and a familiar damp smell, like in an old toilet. Mirek had forgotten how cold it could get down there. At the end of the hallway, the familiar white hair floated out of the black like a specter in the dim light.

That's what she was. A  _s_ _trašidlo._

Her back was turned, staring through the dark, one way window into the interrogation room. At least, that's what Mirek thought until he got closer and saw she was using it as a mirror so she could touch up her lipstick, the only color to her pallid complexion. She was religious with that bloody shade, always reapplying it after a drink or even a sample of food. So much that he had never seen her bare lips before. Not that he wanted to. The only way he would was if they were both in an execution line. He had no desire to see her naked lips. The thought of the  _strašidlo_  naked would make any man soft.

He waited until she was finished and she turned to acknowledge him. Already a tall woman, the boots lifted her another inch and a half, bringing her eye to eye with Mirek, who was used to seeing just the tops of women's heads.

She smiled warmly and leaned in to kissed his cheek in greeting. "You came," she whispered. She had a deep voice, but no warmth to her words.

He returned the kiss. "My pleasure," he said, even though they both knew it hadn't been a request.

She used her thumb to wipe the lipstick off his cheek. Her white leather glove was cold on his skin.

Her gaze hardened at the dark window. "I'm afraid we haven't made him comfortable enough."

She reached into her coat and pulled out a thick file. "These were on him." At first glance, they were autopsy reports. Nothing too serious, until he got to a face he recognized. An English banker with ties to their organization, who had refused to pay up. A debt to Ruzicka was a red strike on her ledger.

"From your office?" he said, flipping to the next one. More individuals and officials who worked with them, worldwide. The thief must have looked through several different files to find them all. He was thorough.

"Yes." Her eyes flicked over him, a small smile creeping at the corner of her mouth. "Once you have the information, call me."

Her heels clacked on the floor. Nina gave him one last look, just a scowl, before she turned on her heel and followed silent behind her mistress. The  _děvka_. He swallowed down the acidic hatred with a bland smile.

He would beat her head in one day.

Dimka, Ruzicka's thick wall of muscle that was more a tool than an actual person, unlocked the door. In the dim light, Mirek could make out a slumped figure huddled against the far wall.

A filthy, dark grey hoodie and cargo pants hung off his lean frame, torn in various places from his escape attempt. His bare feet, nearly blue from cold, were pulled into him, head resting on his knees. A wild shock of matted hair lifted at the sound of the door slamming. Shadows caught off his cheekbones, the skin pulled tight against his skull in the way a starving man's did.

"Dimka," Mirek said with a sigh. "A chair?"

Dimka grunted softly and brought a metal fold-in chair from the hall. He dragged it in, screeching across the concrete floor and set it up. The noise made Mirek grind his teeth.

"Little louder next time. I don't think the dead heard you."

The prisoner snorted into his knee, the corner of his mouth tilted up.

Dimka glared at him and grunted as he hoisted him up by the hair with one hand under his arm. The skin under the handcuffs was a raw pink around both arms. Dimka, the idiot, had locked them too tightly. That would have to be bandaged.

Once seated, Mirek could see his face better, still shadowed from the single fluorescent light overhead. A tired, but razor sharp gaze locked on him through the greasy strands of hair. His right eye was swollen with red splotches around the eye socket. He could see the tell-tale gash on his temple from where Dimka had hit him with his ring.

Mirek sat back in his own chair, throwing one arm over the back. "You've caused some problems here, and since you refuse to speak to Dimka, perhaps you'd be more open to speak with me." He cast a glance behind him, where Dimka stood with vague attention. He smirked. "I am better at conversation."

The  _zloděj_  - a bloody prisoner - had the gall to roll his eyes. Mirek didn't hit him yet. He could only hit him once he started. But he was amused at the audacity.

"Do you understand what I am saying to you?" he said with some irritation. "Or are you just too stupid to know how  _fucked_  you are?"

Those eyes locked onto him, furious. The first emotion Mirek was able to pull from him. Good.

The  _zloděj_  cleared his throat. "Of course I understand," he answered. His voice was a bit rough, like when someone first woke up, but a deep baritone from deep in his chest. He must've been tall, standing. "It's a simple language."

Mirek barked out a laugh. The czech tangled itself on the man's tongue like a grunting ape. "I assume you don't speak it."

"I do."

Mirek snorted.  _Not well_ , he thought. "Who sent you?"

Their guest jerked his head back to clear the hair from his eyes eyes. "I know I speak it better than you speak Dutch, though in fairness this was a better excuse to learn a language rather than a long distance relationship."

Mirek blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Or is it german? You'll have to excuse me. I didn't get a very good look, but Dutch is statistically more likely."

It wasn't spoken in threat, more like simple observation, but it still sent a thrill of terror through Mirek.

He knew. The little bitch somehow knew about her, but that was impossible. Mirek's first instinct was to break his jaw. Bianca was his secret. Safe. And the fact that this nosy prick - or anyone - knew about her first terrified him, then enraged him.

Mirek swallowed down his anger and cracked his neck. He glanced behind him, where Dimka was still standing with a dim expression. He was too stupid to ask questions.

Mirek pointed. "Outside. I'll call if I need you."

"Hn." The lump shrugged a massive shoulder and quietly shut the door behind him.

He turned back to the _zloděj_  who had suddenly become much, much more interesting alive than dead. "You're quite good. What other tricks do you know?"

The man scoffed. "It's not a trick. It's simple word association through different branches of similar languages. Czech has a Balto-Slavic root, related to Russian and Polish, mind you."

He was trying to steer the topic. Oh he really was a stupid, stupid man, to break into a high security compound of a Češka mob boss and think he could steal from her. Then try to distract Mirek from doing his job? It wasn't going to work.

"What is your language, friend?"

The  _zloděj_  clicked his tongue. "Why don't you guess, and then I will tell you if you are right," he said with a bite he hadn't shown before.

Mirek stood, having had enough, the chair scraping back. He shouldered off his windbreaker. "Those aren't the rules of this game, I'm afraid."

The prisoner stared at him through his dark fringe. "I'm rather good at games you'll find."

"I'd rather you make this job easier and tell me what I need to know." But they both knew that wasn't happening.

"Never an easy way. More often just a longer, more irritating road than the other."

Mirek rolled up his sleeves. "Don't give up hope now,  _přítele_. I'm quite good at what I do."

He kicked the chair back so hard his prisoner's head smacked against the floor.

 

-x-

 

**STOCKHOLM**

 

His phone pinged twice. Jim huffed and swung his legs off the hotel bed. He had muted the telly so he could work on organizing orders for the next mission. Nearly two weeks and the papers and stations were still gorged with possible leads for the attack in Berlin. The lucky few, with access to a blurred security image of him and Seb, were the ones that his clients subscribed to the most. As far as he was concerned, all news was good news when it concerned him.

The Lydmar Hotel, their current stay, came stocked with newspapers around Europe. Most of Seb's side of the bed - he couldn't risk getting his _own_ side messy - was littered with blueprints and cutouts from papers, most articles indicating where he planned his next hit. His laptop was undergoing a security breech of _Nordea_. By tomorrow, the largest accounts of any trade company or international stockholder would be transferred to a client that would no longer exist by the time the police caught on.

Jim cracked his neck and picked up the phone. The double ping was an email. Most of his clients knew to call him. 

Only a few couldn't stand him enough to hear him speak.

 

**> >RE:RE: URGENT**

 

It was an unknown sender, which wasn't unusual. Jim received information from ghost addresses all the time. It made them feel secure, like IP addresses couldn't be traced with just the right amount of searching. He always found them eventually. Sometimes he even paid them a visit, depending on the information they had.

The email itself was an attachment to a _Sun_ article, and redirected him when he clicked on it. The bright red letters danced across the screen.

 

**INTERNET DETECTIVE NAMED OFFICIAL MISSING PERSON**

 

They'd included the photo of him in the hat. The journalist that caught him running out of the building, trying to hide his face, became just as famous as the detective. She was "The One" who caught the elusive detective in his now famous attire. His arm shielding the side of his face, with the deerstalker pulled low over his forehead. Not enough to hide the dark curls that sprouted around his ear and jawline, and not enough to hide one, brilliantly blue eye that glared out into the crowd.

Jim looked at the photo for a long time, as if he hadn't committed every detail of him to memory. The urgent lettering of the title only contrasted more with the dark man in the photo.

Well, if he was missing enough for the British government to leak the news to a tabloid, then it _must_ be serious. 

Jim looked over his shoulder at the laptop. Still another two hours before they were in the bank. He let out a slow breath through his nose, and shrugged. Oh well. There went forty-eight million euros down the drain. 

The things he did for desperate men.

He shut the laptop and started gathering up the documents on the bedspread. He'd memorized all of them already. No need for a paper trail.

"Seb!" he shouted, then rolled his eyes when he remembered. He didn't often slip up, but sometimes, especially when it was just too quiet in a hotel room, it was easy to yell for his sniper and get no response.

He kicked in the bathroom door, startling the marine, who was in the middle of shaving. 

"What the fuck?" he signed clumsily, one hand still gripping the razor. Half his face was covered in cream.

"Pack up," Jim signed, quick and snappish. "We're leaving."

He dumped the documents into the tub and flicked open his lighter. 

Seb tapped his shoulder. "Where?" he waved his hands.

He tossed the flame into the tub and watched it consume the white pages. He lazily circled a finger next to his ear, the sign for _London._

In the minute it took the flames to erase every note and blueprint, he had mentally cracked the code for Holmes' laptop, knowing he would have to look there, for when he arrived at two-two-one b Baker Street.

He would have been quicker, but this was new territory for him. He had never played detective before.

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Google translate helped me with czech. I know it's probably not going to be all accurate. 
> 
> strašidlo - specter  
> zloděj - prisoner  
> přítele - friend


End file.
